


words i don't want to say (i lie again)

by moon__goddess



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: ....sort of - Freeform, Depression, M/M, Slice of Life, lying, non-linear, the Depression Fic (TM), two depressed boys, who fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27921280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moon__goddess/pseuds/moon__goddess
Summary: Every lie you tell is inked on your skin.Written forSVTOXIC Fic Fest Round 1 Prompt A-44
Relationships: Kim Mingyu/Lee Jihoon | Woozi
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47
Collections: SVTOXIC FEST 2020





	words i don't want to say (i lie again)

**Author's Note:**

> TW: DEPRESSION, LYING

Every lie you tell is inked on your skin.

This has been the state of the world for as long as Jihoon’s been alive. He doesn’t know when it started, doesn’t know if it was in response to something, but he knows that it has fostered a reliance on truth and honesty.

He also knows that he wears long sleeves and baggy clothes for a reason.

“I’m fine, Mom,” he says on the phone, like he always does every time she calls, ignoring the flash of pain and the itching sensation of words re-etching themselves onto his back. “Don’t worry.”

~ 

The first time he lied, he was maybe five or six years old, having just whacked his knee on a table corner in kindergarten. His teacher had rushed over at the sound and fawned over him, and he was already sick of it, sick of people treating him differently because he was small for his age, smaller than the other kids in class, and he told her his knee didn’t hurt, that he was fine.

He’d screamed when the words had etched themselves on his arm, stinging pain followed by intense itching, and when his mother had seen them later that day when she’d picked him up, she’d bounced between anger and sadness so quickly Jihoon wasn’t sure what to do.

The words had faded with time, every time he’d said “It doesn’t hurt” and meant it, but the other part of his lie stays, darkening every time he repeats it.

With the amount of times he’s said it, though, the words have spread to other parts of his body, linking and stretching and covering him in chains of his own making.

~

Jihoon clenches the edges of the sink, staring into his reflection, willing himself not to break down. “I’m fine,” he mumbles. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine.”

The words darken and intertwine, wrapping themselves around his biceps, his elbows, down to his forearms.

If he says it enough times, if it gets inked onto his skin enough times, maybe, eventually, he’ll believe it.

~

He tried to remove them, once. 

Got as far as the bathroom.

And then he realized what he was doing and stood over the sink, hands braced against the porcelain, hot tears streaming down his face. 

That was in university, after he’d spent years as a kid coloring over them and covering them with makeup, and he was just so  _ tired _ of all the effort, so tired of trying, so he stopped. He stopped trying. He bought long sleeves and sweatshirts and turtlenecks and donated every pair of shorts he owned, covering everything up and never letting anyone other than the mirror see the words that cover his skin.

~

“I lie,” Jihoon says, clutching the fabric of his sweatshirt so tightly his knuckles turn white. “I lie to myself. Every single day.” He grimaces, shrinking back into his seat and trying to let his sweatshirt envelop him. “I lie to myself because it’s the only way I can get through the day.”

***

Every lie you tell is inked on your skin.

Mingyu prides himself on the fact that his skin is unbroken - pure, golden tan, no words forced onto him. He chooses his words carefully, deliberately, but also is unafraid to speak his mind, letting his thoughts be known. His friends have grown used to his brand of unflinching honesty, always teasing him about his blunt statements, but they’ve also learned to tell when he’s evading the truth. 

Wonwoo, the one he’s known the longest, and Minghao, the one he’s closest to, both say that his tells are really obvious when he’s not being completely honest, but he’s never recognized them himself, and no one other than them has ever said anything about it, so he just shrugs it off as the two of them knowing him too well.

Until Lee Jihoon.

~

He almost missed it, this first time Jihoon noticed. 

They were at Wonwoo’s apartment, a small gathering of friends drinking and hanging out, and Mingyu had known Jihoon tangentially through Wonwoo and Seokmin but they’d never really interacted.

Seokmin had said something about mint chocolate ice cream, which had - once again - started the debate that Mingyu was so tired of hearing, and to avoid anyone’s wrath he shrugged and said “It’s not my favorite” when he was asked his opinion.

Which, of course, is true, but it also implied that he doesn’t like it, which is not.

Wonwoo had raised an eyebrow but left him alone. Minghao hadn’t even noticed, too busy arguing with a friend of Seokmin’s (Mingyu was pretty sure his name was Seungkwan), but Jihoon. Jihoon had looked at him disbelievingly, arms crossed.

Mingyu had glanced at him, not really knowing why but looking anyway, and flinched away from the accusatory look in his eyes.

He surreptitiously checked his torso in the bathroom later that night, relieved when he was met with nothing but tan skin.

~

He’s careful around Jihoon, more aware of his words, his actions, his movements.

Jihoon is striking, broad and sharp and strong, and yet in the brief moments when he smiles his face transforms into something soft and joyful.

Mingyu feels a pang of attraction every time he sees him, whether it be in a group setting or when he’s alone at their local coffee shop, sipping an iced americano and scribbling in a notebook.

He watches him from his own table at the other end of the shop, and realizes that he wants to know more, wants to know him better, wants to run his fingers along his jawline to see if it’s as sharp as it looks.

He catches himself staring for far too long and gives himself a little shake, turning back to his work, frowning down at his tablet when it spits back an error message, and picks up his stylus to readjust the sketch.

~

He’d admitted it to Minghao when they were wine drunk and giggling about Seokmin’s terrible attempts to woo Soonyoung, a friend of Minghao’s who’d come out with them the last time they went clubbing.

“You like him, huh,” Minghao had said, waving a hand and interrupting Mingyu’s rambling (which had been about why Jihoon hadn’t come with them, he looks like he’d be a good dancer, and he also knows Soonyoung, he should have come).

His first instinct had been to deny it, the word halfway out of his mouth before he’d realized what he was about to do.

“N-yeah,” he’d said, eyes wide. “Yeah, I do.”

“That’s what I thought,” Minghao had said satisfactorily before pouring the rest of the bottle into his glass.

The next morning, he’d scanned his entire body in the mirror, remembering the half of a word he’d said to Minghao, and exhaled heavily when he realized nothing had changed.

~

Mingyu forces a smile, laughs at Seokmin’s jokes like nothing is wrong. All he wants to do is go home and curl into a ball and wither away, but his friends are expecting him to be here, to be social, to be the happy, boisterous Mingyu they all know and love. 

He finds himself thinking that he’s lucky the tattoos don’t acknowledge expressions or emotions, just words.

“Hey.” A hand touches his arm.

He looks up from his barely-touched drink to see Jihoon, brows furrowed as he looks at him.

“Are you okay?”

The soft question almost undoes him.

He shakes his head.

“No,” he says quietly, quietly enough that he’s not sure if Jihoon hears him. “No, I’m not.”

Jihoon is the only one who notices. Jihoon pulls him out of Wonwoo’s apartment, calling goodbyes to all their mutual friends, and drives him home. Jihoon shifts his weight in front of Mingyu’s door before holding out his phone for Mingyu’s number. Jihoon watches him walk inside, the weight of his gaze boring holes into Mingyu’s back.

The last thought Mingyu has before he crashes into a dreamless sleep is that if Jihoon is the only one who noticed, maybe Jihoon has been watching him as well.

***

Jihoon stares at his phone.

Stares at the contact screen that he still doesn’t quite believe is real.

Stares at the smiling emoji next to Mingyu’s name, right above his number, and can’t believe this is his life.

Mingyu is intriguing, he thinks. Handsome, funny, and intriguing. He’d always seemed like the kind of person Jihoon didn’t really want to get to know, always surrounded by people, always laughing, always smiling, and so he’d never made any motion to go beyond their very casual acquaintance through mutual friends.

But.

That time at Wonwoo’s when the group had been arguing over ice cream had changed his mind completely. Mingyu had answered and Jihoon had just -  _ known. _ Known that he wasn’t being honest. And that had thrown a wrench into his plans of staying away.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off Mingyu after that. Always seeking him out, always catching glimpses, always seeing  _ something _ that put cracks in his facade. He’d even seen him a few times at his favorite local coffee shop, frowning at a laptop or a tablet or some other electronic device at a table in the corner, and Jihoon would watch him each time, only looking away to scribble half-worded lyrics in his notebook.

And then last night had happened, and Jihoon had asked the question while already knowing the answer, and now he has Mingyu’s soft voice saying “Thank you, Jihoon,” on repeat in his head. Now he has the memory of Mingyu leaning into him as they walked to his car. Now he has Mingyu’s phone number. And he’s not entirely sure how.

He doesn’t deserve it. He knows that if he reveals even a sliver of his true self, he’ll be rejected, tossed aside, thrown away like day-old coffee. He knows. He’s been through it before.

~

Jihoon has told exactly three people about the words on his skin.

He had to tell Soonyoung and Seungcheol. They’d known him for too long. They’d both seen the words accidentally, Soonyoung barging into his university dorm without warning while he was changing, Seungcheol hugging him too hard and making the neck of his sweatshirt shift.

He chose to tell the third. He thought she would understand. He’d seen a few sentences on her.

But she had scoffed.

“Why would I want someone like you,” she’d said. “How could I be attracted to someone who constantly lies? Who’s covered in lies?”

She’d looked at him before she left, her gaze meeting his for a brief moment, and the emptiness he’d seen there, the complete absence of feeling, had broken him even more.

~

Jihoon regrets ever telling Soonyoung he could invite people over for a movie night.

But he really doesn’t, because Kim Mingyu is next to him on the couch in his and Soonyoung’s apartment, loudly arguing with Soonyoung’s friend Minghao about the specifics of the relationship between Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, and his body heat is burning Jihoon’s entire side, and Jihoon has spent the entire night watching him instead of the movie.

Soonyoung brings out the alcohol once  _ Winter Soldier _ ends, and Jihoon accepts his beer, watching Mingyu’s throat bob as he takes a sip of his own drink.

They make it through  _ Civil War _ before Mingyu yawns and sinks back into the couch. “I can do one more,” he says, “and then I should probably get home.”

“Suit yourself,” Minghao says without looking up from his phone. “I’m crashing here.”

“Says who?” Soonyoung fires back.

“Says me,” Minghao replies, making Jihoon chuckle. “We have rehearsal in the morning and I need sleep. Which I will not get if I go back to my apartment at this hour.”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, “but you owe me.”

“Sure.”

“What should be our last movie, then?” Mingyu picks up the remote and starts scrolling through the list.

“ _ Black Panther _ ,” Jihoon says.

“Ugh, Jihoonie, not again,” Soonyoung groans. “Don’t you have that movie memorized by now?”

Jihoon crosses his arms. “Maybe,” he replies. “But it’s the next one in the timeline, and it makes sense to watch it after  _ Civil War _ .”

“You’re the resident MCU expert,” Mingyu says, giving him a smile, and  _ oh _ Jihoon’s heart is going double time. “ _ Black Panther  _ it is.”

Soonyoung groans again. “I’m going to bed, then,” he says. “Jihoon’s made me watch this movie enough times already.”

Jihoon sticks his tongue out at him.

“Hao, I’ll get your bedding and stuff set up so when you get sick of Jihoon reciting the lines you can come sleep,” Soonyoung continues. 

“I don’t  _ recite _ the lines,” Jihoon protests, smiling when he doesn’t feel the telltale sting. “I just… say them every now and then.”

“Whatever you say, Jihoonie,” Soonyoung says, grinning as he ruffles his hair before walking off towards his room.

Mingyu hits play and Jihoon’s attention is fully absorbed by the movie.

A rustling distracts him from the casino scene, and he glances away from the TV to see Minghao carefully walking down the hallway towards Soonyoung’s room.

He realizes, with a jolt, that he and Mingyu are alone in the living room.

The movie continues to play, the scene changing into the car chase through the streets of Busan, and while normally Jihoon would be rapt with attention, pointing out streets and places that he recognizes from growing up there, he can’t take his focus off the person next to him.

Mingyu finishes his drink, throat bobbing once again, and Jihoon swallows, shifting his weight and bringing his feet up so he can be more comfortable.

Mingyu glances at him and Jihoon immediately looks back to the screen.

“Look,” he says, gesturing at the night market the heroes are crashing through. “My mom loves going there, it’s her favorite night market. When they were filming on location she complained so much because she couldn’t go.”

“Ah, are you from Busan?” Mingyu looks at him, his gaze slightly hazy, which Jihoon attributes to the four beers he’d watched him down.

He nods. “Grew up there. Moved to Seoul in high school, then stayed. My parents moved back when I was in university.”

“Mmm, okay.” Mingyu shifts, his knee brushing Jihoon’s leg. “Is that when you met Soonyoung?”

Jihoon shakes his head. “No, high school.” He laces his hands together in his lap. “I met Seungcheol then too.”

Mingyu looks confused. “Seungcheol?”

Jihoon smiles, because the way Mingyu’s face scrunches is cute. “I think you met him at Wonwoo’s? He’s Jeonghan’s boyfriend.”

“Ohhhhh,” Mingyu says. “Got it.” He shifts again. This time his entire leg presses against Jihoon’s. “What did you study in university? I don’t think I ever asked.”

“You didn’t.” Their text conversations run through Jihoon’s mind, little interactions and funny memes and general chatting, and the rush of warmth he feels is a bit surprising. “Composition,” he says. “And performance.”

“Like music?”

Jihoon nods.

“That’s so cool!” Mingyu turns to fully face him, and Jihoon is now completely ignoring the movie, his mind so aware of Mingyu that he can’t focus on anything else. “Do you play any instruments?”

“Yeah, kinda.” Jihoon twists the bottom of his sweatshirt, the fabric sliding through his fingers. “I used to play clarinet when I was little. And in uni I played drums, guitar, and piano.” He shrugs, looking down at where Mingyu’s leg is still touching his. “Even though I don’t have the right hand shape for piano.”

Mingyu looks at him askance for a second and then takes his hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “Your hands are gorgeous,” he mumbles. “Perfect for piano. And all your other instruments too.” 

“Y-you’re drunk,” Jihoon replies, just as quietly, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull away. Mingyu ignores him, and Jihoon’s heart is in his throat as he watches him play with his fingers, the difference in their skin tones striking.

Mingyu traces a vein, following it up to his wrist, gently circling it. Jihoon doesn’t even realize that he’s pushing the fabric of his sleeve up, exposing his skin, until Mingyu’s fingers stop moving.

“Jihoon,” he says carefully, all the haziness abruptly vanishing from his voice as he turns his wrist to read the words written there, “what is this?”

Jihoon freezes.

“Don’t,” he manages to say, yanking his sleeve down and scrambling back, putting himself out of Mingyu’s reach and internally wincing at the look of hurt that flashes across his face.

“Jihoon-”

“Don’t,” he repeats. “I-I’m fine.”

Mingyu stares, horrified, at the base of his neck, where he can feel the itch.

“Jihoon,” he says again, “no, you’re not.” He leans forward, extending his hand. “Please. Talk to me.”

Jihoon shakes his head, shrinking into the end of the couch and tugging his sweatshirt up. “Leave me alone,” he says, ashamed of the way his voice shakes. “Just - leave, Mingyu.”

Mingyu’s hand falls. “I don’t want to,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to leave you like this. Please.”

There is a note of something in his voice, something that Jihoon desperately wants to understand, but he can’t. He can’t let Kim Mingyu, of all people, see all of his flaws, his lies, his lack of everything. Kim Mingyu doesn’t deserve that. Kim Mingyu deserves someone better than him.

“Just let me-”

“No,” he says, interrupting whatever Mingyu was about to say, something that surely would have crushed his heart into impossibly tiny pieces. “I want you to leave.”

He can feel the words embedding themselves in his leg, the sensation a searing pain this time. It happens if he lies too often, too quickly, one right after the other. He knows. He’s been through it before.

This time, the hurt on Mingyu’s face stays. “Fine,” he says, standing up. “I’ll leave.” He grabs his coat from where he’d tossed it earlier. “I don’t want to leave,” he adds, putting it on, “but since you asked, I will.” He stuffs his feet into his shoes by the door and then turns back, his earnest brown eyes boring into Jihoon’s soul. “I’ll be here for you whenever you’re ready, Jihoon,” he says, and then he walks out.

Jihoon buries his face into his arms, squeezing his eyes shut to stop the hot tears burning their way down his cheeks. 

The movie on the TV plays on.

***

MIngyu wakes up and immediately checks his phone.

He sighs heavily and flops back into his pillow when he sees that there are no new messages.

He doesn’t want to text Jihoon first. He’s texted Jihoon first every time they’ve talked. But he can feel the pull, the want, the need, tugging at him until he’s opening their message thread and staring at the empty message box, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

It’s been a couple days, he reasons. A couple of days since he saw the words on Jihoon’s wrist, words that said  _ everything is fine i’m happy _ in dark, flowing script, words that made his heart clench. A couple of days is enough time.

He can’t make his thumbs move. The empty box is taunting him, the last message a ‘lol’ from Jihoon in response to a meme Mingyu had sent him, the timestamp of three days ago mocking him and his weak, soft heart.

He’d almost kissed him.

He’d  _ wanted _ to, wanted to kiss him, wanted to wrap his arms around Jihoon and pull him in, and with the way Jihoon had watched him trace the veins on his hand, the way Jihoon had been watching him all night, he thought Jihoon would allow him.

But then Jihoon had pulled back, pulled away, shrank into a shell of himself, and thrown Mingyu out of his apartment.

Mingyu groans and tosses his phone away from him. He can’t think about this right now.

The message comes that night, when he’s in the middle of eating dinner and watching a new episode of Show Champion, the voices of rookie idol groups grating on his ears.

He blinks at his phone for a solid minute before he acknowledges that the words on the screen are real and not a figment of his imagination.

_ I’m sorry. _

~

Mingyu has technically never outright lied in his life.

Technically.

He had to, in order to keep up appearances. He needed to be bare, be clear, to never have words branded into his skin. That fact had been drilled into him from a young age, by his parents, by his teachers, by his friends, by the way he saw people react whenever they spotted ink on someone else. He needed to be seen as good, truthful, trustworthy. 

Because whenever he dropped the act, dropped his smile and his laugh and his outgoing personality, whenever he let his quiet, nerdy, introverted side out, people would leave. People would drift away, tell him that he’s not interesting, he’s boring, he’s no fun. People would stop talking to him, would point and laugh, would abandon him.

So he lied.

Lied by not saying anything. Lied by pretending he was happy, pretending he enjoyed something, and by almost never saying anything without a double entendre. 

His empty skin has always felt like a mistake, like he should be completely covered in words and thoughts and feelings, no patch of skin left untouched. 

~

Mingyu shows up at Jihoon’s door with a peace offering of jajangmyeon and rice, and Jihoon lets him in a few minutes after he texts him.

They eat in silence for a while before Jihoon clears his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “For… asking you to leave.”

Mingyu puts down his chopsticks.

“I…” A flush creeps up Jihoon’s neck. “I, uh, don’t like… talking. About them. Or, uh, people seeing them.”

The way his voice shakes slightly makes Mingyu’s heart crack that much further. “It’s okay,” he says. “I shouldn’t have pushed. I just…” He blushes, rubbing the back of his neck. “Um… I wanted - well, I still want, um… to get to know you better.” He offers Jihoon a small smile.

Jihoon lowers his chopsticks, his lips flattening into a thin line. “Why.”

Mingyu blinks at him. “Why?” he repeats.

“Yes. Why.” Jihoon looks at him, gaze steady, face blank.

“I…” Mingyu feels his face get warmer, and he looks down at his hands. “Um. I think, uh, that you’re amazing, you’re so intelligent, and talented, and you… uh, you’re handsome,” he says, all in a rush, “and I like you.”

The words hang in the air between them.

Jihoon’s face is slowly draining of color.

“I don’t believe you,” he says abruptly, and pushes back his chair, his movements jerky as he stands up and starts to walk into the living room.

Mingyu gets up, feeling an odd mixture of numbness and shock. “What do you mean, you don’t believe me?” He makes use of his stupidly long legs and steps in front of Jihoon, making him stop before he walks right into him.

Jihoon takes a step back and crosses his arms, holding them tightly against his chest, and the anger mixed with something else on his face that Mingyu recognizes makes a flash of anger burn through him, angry at the person, the people, the world, who had made Jihoon look like that. “You say things - things like that - to me, and I can’t - I don’t believe you!”

His eyebrows raise. “You think I’m  _ lying _ ?” 

“I don’t know!” Jihoon shouts, the words ripped from his throat. “Maybe! All those things, they can’t be true, they can’t!” He glares up at Mingyu, who feels the force of emotion roiling behind his gaze. “You’re probably covered in lies!”

The insinuation enrages him even more, enrages him enough that he doesn’t even think about his next action.

Mingyu yanks his shirt off.

“Do you believe me now?” he shouts back. 

Jihoon stumbles back a step, his eyes wide.

All of Mingyu’s anger leaves him in a rush, and he sits down heavily on the couch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

The room is silent for a minute before Jihoon carefully sits down next to him. “Um.” He touches Mingyu’s shoulder. “I want - no, I need - to show you something.”

Mingyu can’t take his eyes off Jihoon as he slowly pulls his shirt over his head, revealing his torso - which is covered in words.

He reaches over, almost trancelike, and traces the words along Jihoon’s ribs. “Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Does what hurt?” Jihoon is very still.

“Lying,” Mingyu says. “Getting these.” He reads the words that wrap around Jihoon’s arm and feels his heart break for the man in front of him.

“Um, a little, I guess,” Jihoon replies. Mingyu glances at him to see that he’s watching the path Mingyu’s fingers are taking across his skin. “It mainly itches.”

Mingyu hums in response, trailing his fingers along another sentence on Jihoon’s shoulder that is more than slightly worrisome. 

Jihoon breaks the silence after a while, his muscles tensing. “Say something, Mingyu,” he whispers, a pleading note in his voice.

Mingyu turns Jihoon to face him. “You’re beautiful,” he says. “Jihoon, you’re beautiful.”

Jihoon’s eyes drop to his bare chest, the tension in his body like he’s waiting for something.

Mingyu waits with him, taking his hands and staying quiet.

After a minute, Jihoon’s gaze comes back up and locks with his. “You don’t have words,” he says slowly.

Mingyu shakes his head. 

“But - you said -”

He smiles. “I don’t lie, Jihoon.” He shrugs, his smile turning wry. “Not with words, anyway.”

Something shifts in Jihoon’s face. “But…”

Mingyu raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“But… you lied,” Jihoon says. “That time at Wonwoo’s, during the mint choco argument.”

“Technically, I didn’t,” Mingyu replies. “It really isn’t my favorite flavor. Which is what I said.” He chuckles, feeling the tinge of self-deprecation. “But saying it like I did implies that I don’t like it. Which is not true. And these-” he lightly taps a word on Jihoon’s arm “-only deal in statements. Not implications, not emotions, not expressions.”

“So did you mean it? What you said?” he asks after a moment, like he still can’t believe Mingyu, despite the overwhelming evidence.

“Yes,” Mingyu says, carefully intertwining their fingers. “I really did. Mean it.” He swallows nervously. “I’m always truthful with you.”

A smile crosses Jihoon’s face for a moment. “Can… can I?” he asks, leaning forward.

Mingyu nods, expecting Jihoon to reach out and trace his skin like he’d done, but Jihoon continues to surprise him.

Hands tug his face down, and lips press against his.

It’s quick, fleeting, and yet time stops and the moment stretches into eternity before it breaks when Jihoon pulls away.

Mingyu meets his eyes for the briefest moment before he groans and pulls Jihoon back to him, crushing his mouth to his.

***

They are broken, the both of them, using lies to get through the day, the week, the rest of their lives. One with words, one by omission. One with blank skin, one covered in ink.

Maybe together, they can help fix each other, patch the other up and fill in the cracks with the truth that both of them know, that both of them speak.

_ You’re not broken. _

_ You’re beautiful. _

_ I love you.  _

**Author's Note:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah its done!!!!  
> the depression fic is done!!!!!!  
> sorry :3  
> BIG BIG THANKS TO FEFE FOR SAVING MY LIFE AND BETAING ILYSM
> 
> but seriously, the way i ended this fic is true. you're not broken. you're beautiful. i love you.  
> my dms are always open if you need to talk. ♥
> 
> [tumblr](https://yixingminseokjongdae.tumblr.com) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/allforexot9) | [cc](https://curiouscat.me/moon_goddess)


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